


Finding Home

by AifasInTheSky



Category: Team Fortress 2, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: (I'll add tags as characters appear and stuff progresses), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Heartache, Hurt/Comfort, PB characters and events are mentioned, Tenth Class (Team Fortress 2), all the RED team will appear eventually, moved Phantom Blood dates around, one-sided jonawagon implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23630554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AifasInTheSky/pseuds/AifasInTheSky
Summary: The RED Team, after years of status quo, has a new addition. Who's this loud English gentleman, and how will he fit in the team's dynamic?Spy means to find out at least one of these things.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. The Newcomer

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh welcome to this odd crossover! \o/ It's almost crack taken seriously tbf, but I dunno, I really wanted to give the idea a try--mostly I really want to write one scene in particular fdsjfsd but I'm having lots of fun with the rest of it too
> 
> Without further ado, let's start!

He arrived on a rainy day at the Teufort base.

They knew he was coming. Miss Pauling had gathered them in front of a screen and made them watch a tape by the Administrator. The Brawler, she said he was. He was hired in the hopes of having an advantage on the enemy team. “Don’t kill each other,” she warned, which left them somewhat on edge.

Miss Pauling had assured them they would get on well, they should just… play nice. “Spy, especially you: don’t be an ass.”

“Please, I know how to behave myself.” Spy huffed, indignant.

Miss Pauling had looked skeptical, which had left them all wondering why Spy, out of all of them, would search trouble with that man.

Pyro was the first to see him.

A silhouette appeared in the rain, in the distance. It was moving quickly towards the base—it looked like someone carrying something—two somethings—in his hands.

They perked up. Their new friend was there!

With a happy exclamation, they ran away from the window and into the rec room, slamming its doors open.

“He’s here, he’s here!” they exclaimed, moving their arms up and down in excitement.

“What’s wrong, Mumbles?” Scout said, frowning. He relaxed when Pyro started clapping. “Found something cool?”

“Our friend is here!” They ran to the nearest window and pointed outside, mimicking someone running.

“Oi, it looks like our new teammate has arrived,” Demo said, looking through the window. “Aw, bloody hell, I was planning on getting pissed today.”

“What’s the difference?” Scout asked. “You’re drunk all the time, anyways.”

Demo looked down at his bottle of Scrumpy. “Aye, fair enough.” He shrugged.

“Is no one going to go help our new comrade?” Spy asked from the corner, making everyone jump in surprise.

“Jeez, Spy, give us a warning.” Scout glared at him. “Besides, why don’t you go yourself?”

“Scout, this suit is worth more than all the clothes you’ve worn in your life together. I’m not going to put it in jeopardy.”

“’S not like you weren’t thrown piss like two days ago, eh, Spy?”

“Ugh- Disgusting as that is, at least it is part of my _job_ , unlike receiving any lowlife—”

“Move away,” Heavy said, walking into the room. Everyone cleared the path as he made a beeline at the door and exited the base, letting it slam behind him.

Everyone present looked at each other.

“Can I—”

“No, Py, you know you and Soldier are banned from being outside while it rains.”

“Aww…” They deflated a bit.

But their friend was coming, so they were happy anyway.

\-----

He looked at the building from behind the locks of blond hair stubbornly plastered to his face.

 _Not home_ , he thought. It’d never become his new home. Home used to be the grey, dark, cold, cruel streets, and even that he wasn’t able to call ‘home’ anymore.

His chest ached with sorrow, regret and a burning fury.

“I failed you, Jonathan,” he spat, bitterly. He couldn’t. He wasn’t able to move on, to become a better man. His blood had been poisoned with guilt, grief and a helplessness that fueled a resurging need to fight, to _hurt_. To do _something_ , anything to get rid of that godawful feeling.

So, there he was, trying to give it at least some meaning.

The rain made it difficult to see, but at least he could see the lights were on. They guided his hurried steps towards the base, towards his new—and yet, so old—life.

A figure—and a big one at that—emerged from the building. It was coming his way. He felt a pang at the sight—it wouldn’t be him, of course it wouldn’t. But at the same time… _They’re greeting me,_ he thought. _They… they can’t be that bad._

At least he’d return the gesture.

\-----

Heavy ran under the rain. He couldn’t see much, but there was clearly someone not far away.

“Here!” he waved.

The stranger lifted a hand as high as he could with his suitcase. Heavy ran faster; they needed to get inside fast.

He reached him.

“Thank you, Mister!” the man shouted as he handed Heavy one of his suitcases, surprisingly audible despite the loud pattering of the drops.

Heavy nodded quickly, gesturing for the other one.

“I’ll carry this one, don’t—hey!” Heavy grabbed the other one with ease and put both of them under his arm.

“No time, little man! We need to run!”

“Hey, you—” Water got into the man’s airstream and he coughed loudly, grabbing his bowler hat. “Whatever; let’s go!”

They both ran as fast as they could. The man was somewhat faster than Heavy, who was slowed down by the weight of his luggage. But as soon as he saw he was gaining an advantage, he slowed down in order to go head to head with him.

Heavy thought it was a stupid gesture. But he could understand.

When they were close enough, the man quickened his steps a bit in order to reach the door first and open it for him.

“Thanks,” Heavy said, passing through.

“Thank _you_ , Mister,” the man replied, tipping his hat as he stepped in behind.

Heavy left the suitcases against the wall and looked around. Everyone was there, looking expectantly at them. Pyro was bouncing up and down in excitement, but the rest was silent, still, questions hanging in the air. Well, most of them. Demoman subtly elbowed Spy, who glared at him as if saying: “Don’t.”

He looked at the man. Brawler, he reminded himself. Their new teammate.

He was fixing his three-piece suit, checking out quickly the damage of the water. He then looked up and gave them a dangerous smirk, the long scar across his left cheek tensing up.

“Let me introduce myself.”

He tipped his hat again.

“I’m Speedwagon, The Meddler!”


	2. Good Intentions

Their new teammate liked keeping to himself.

The first days, he didn’t speak a word to them. After his short introduction, and being warned of using his class name only from then on, he’d asked where his room was and retreated to it with a grace he hadn’t seen from anyone but Slim. And then proceeded to make himself scarce at every chance he got.

Dell tried to approach him once.

Brawler had been at the training area, hitting one of the improvised punchbags he had made to Soldier’s insistence for them to keep in perfect killing shape. The punchbag swung violently back and forth, meeting each time a blunt fist or a powerful kick.

“Nice hit, pardner,” he said in his most friendly voice. Brawler immediately turned around, poised to hit. “Woah, easy there.”

Brawler’s panicked, furious eyes blinked, returning to normal. Or, well, shifting into an annoyed frown.

“I could’ve hit you,” he said, still gasping for air.

“I know, buddy, sorry for startling ya. Should’ve been more careful.” He left the slice of apple pie he brought with him over one of the nearby ammo boxes. “We all lose our minds a little over training, ya know—especially Solly.”

Brawler frown deepened. “What’d ya want?” He asked, his accent rearing up. Not that Dell minded, really; just listen to all of ‘em.

“Just bringing something over.” He shrugged, nodding at the pie slice. “Before the rest digs in and leaves nothing but crumbs.”

Brawler eyed the plate, considering it, then looked at him and nodded.

“Thanks, mate.”

“No problem, pardner,” he said with a smile.

“If ya don’t mind, I’m gonna…” Brawler said, turning around again.

Dell sighed. “Go ahead. Gotta check some stuff out on the workshop anyways.” He turned around and gave three steps, then considered. “Hey, one last thing.” He heard the hits stop for a moment. “Come eat with us. Come to the rec room. We’re an odd bunch, but we don’t bite. Much, anyway.” He gave a small chuckle. “You’re part of the team now.”

And then he retreated, listening to the renewed sound of punches against leather.

The next day, he was surprised to find Brawler rummaging the cabinets in the kitchen while Pyro looked at him from the table.

“Where’s the bloody tea?” Brawler growled to himself.

Dell smiled as he watched the firebug point at the coffee pot, to Brawler’s dismay.

Things were going to be alright.

\-----

Miss Pauling was being ridiculous.

Spy was not a brute. Even if the new addition to the team rubbed him off the wrong way, he would behave. He couldn’t be worse than the bushman—who can possibly beat a jarate practitioner in levels of—ugh.

However, there were three things in particular that irritated him, even in the short span of time they had been in each other’s presence.

Firstly, his volume. He was incredibly, annoyingly loud. And he meant Soldier-levels of loudness, which he had previously believed impossible to match. He would live, of course, but it meant he would have to get used to another source of future hearing problems. He could already feel his eardrums complaining.

Secondly, his appearance. He should probably be appreciative of the fact that at least someone else there had a sense of proper fashion, but… Alright, he would admit it: he had become too used to be over the standard. And the rest truly believed he found in Brawler a matching rival, which he found absolutely insulting—if anyone had at least a ninth of his knowledge about quality attires, they would have noticed Brawler’s three-piece suit was made of the most common materials. They weren’t poorly sewn per se, but the tailor was definitely an amateur in comparison to the ones he frequented himself.

The fact that his colleagues did even fathom to compare them made his blood boil. If Scout didn’t even have the common sense to distinguish between cotton and silk, he should shut up.

Lastly… something did not add up. His official documents were, as always, short and to the point. Robert E. O. Speedwagon—he suspected the two initials to be there just for show—English, twenty-five years-old. Dangerous street thug from Ogre Street, London. Specialized in close and mid-range combat; it appeared he would have to keep an eye on that hat of his. Then… paranormal experience? And last of all, what was the cherry on top: his only listed living relative was Mrs. Erina Joestar, widow of Jonathan Joestar, a rich man from an old family who had died the previous year on a mysterious ship wreck.

It all made for a very odd picture. He couldn’t shake off the feeling he was missing something; something important.

He would need to conduct his own research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to point out that in this work, opposite to what I've been doing in all my fics, Engineer calls Spy "Slim" and Sniper "Stretch". Mostly bc I learnt more English along the years dskffd
> 
> \-----
> 
> Not related but: Rest in peace, Rick May. Thank you for everything.


	3. The Smell of Progress

Speedwagon was working on getting to know his teammates. His short chat with the Engineer had straightened up his mind a tad. He knew, from his days in the slugs of London, that it was important not only getting used to the people you fight with, but knowing how they work in general—from their abilities to their dos and don’ts, what buttons are safe to push, what to be wary of.

He hadn’t expected much from them. He was used to work with—or against—the worst of the worst, and mercenary work wasn’t the best place to find goodness in this world.

He wasn’t looking for it, anyways. Not since Jonathan died on that ship.

However, he found himself surprised by the fact that his nose didn’t recoil in their presence. Yes, these men killed, and enjoyed it. But they weren’t rotten to the core. There was hope for them in this world.

Well, except for one of them.

The Medic wasn’t the worst he smelt up to now—no one could match Dio yet, thank God, but… He shuddered. There was something _very wrong_ with that man. He swore to be extra careful around him.

To his horror, the Engineer approached him with grim news.

“A routine surgery,” he said, smiling sideways. “We all went through it, and you’ll need it for the battlefield. You’ll see why.”

“But- but I’m in great shape! I promise I can do my job as it is—”

“I’m sure you can, pardner.” He sounded sincere enough, which made him listen to him a bit more. “It’s just… aw, heck, it’s better if I don’t tell ya. Just… go to the infirmary at six and the Doc will set ya up.”

He didn’t like it—oh, no, not at all.

He was preparing his excuses not to go when the big guy opened the door to his room.

“Doktor thought you might not come,” he said, shrugging. “I can understand. We need to go, though.”

“I—I’m feeling a bit under the weather, actually… H-hey!”

“Sorry,” said Heavy, carrying him in his shoulder with surprising ease. Speedwagon blushed, partly in embarrassment and partly in remembrance of the only other person capable of holding him like that.

What a lousy time to dwell on his old daydreams. It didn’t last long, though, because soon enough Heavy was opening the blasted infirmary’s doors.

“Here’s patient, Doktor,” Heavy said, completely calm. How in hell could he be calm when the place reeked like that, he couldn’t understand. There was nothing calming about this place. He was in imminent danger, he knew it.

“Ah! Danke, Heavy,” the Medic said, smiling, as Speedwagon was deposited in a hospital gurney pointed by a huge cannon-like machine. Oh, no, he had an awful feeling about this. He gulped, arms twitching in nervousness.

“Doktor will not harm you,” Heavy said, voice confident. “This is good for you. Doktor gave me heart first. Now I defy bullets!” He grinned.

He really wasn’t reassured by that. Heart? What the bloody hell was he going to do?

“Danke for the confidence, mein freund.” Medic walked towards them and gave him a wide— _dangerous_ —smile. He frowned when he looked him in the eyes. “I do not think I will be able to work like that. Archimedes!”

He heard a flapping sound and a white dove landed on the end of the cannon, looking at him with shiny, dark little eyes. What…?

_Ouch!_

His arm stung. His vision started going blurry. Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no—

“Heavy, hold him!”

“You will hurt yourself. Hold still.”

Everything was a confusion of limbs and shapes until—

It wasn’t.

He opened his eyes. When did he close them?

He tried to sit and winced. His heart stuttered in a not-at-all reassuring way; his chest felt heavier, tighter than before. What did that arsehole do?!

“Ah, you are awake!”

The Medic emerged from a side room—his room?—an excited smile in his face. “I usually do not use anesthetics for procedures like this one, but you were too uncooperative, Brawler.” He tuts. “Nevermind, it proved useful anyways.”

“What…” he gasped, heart beating faster than ever before. “What did you do to me?”

The Medic grinned like a madman.

“I made you immortal, mein freund.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favourite part to write so far. Sorry, Medic, I love you, but your moral compass is ????
> 
> I hope you're having fun so far! \o/


	4. What It Takes

It was odd, having someone new around after spending so long working with the same people. But, oddly enough, there wasn’t any trouble.

Well, not _unpredictable_ trouble, anyways.

“Brawler! Report for duty in the supply room at 0800 sharp!” With that, Soldier marched away, leaving the kitchen.

Speedwagon looked around to see everyone’s reaction.

No one seemed to be worried.

“Ooohh, Soldier’s gonna give you the tutorial,” Scout said with delight. “I was wondering how long it’d be before that.”

“Er, I was given instructions and shown some films by our employer, was that not…”

“This is more, uhh… extraofficial, lad,” Demoman said, scratching the back of his head. He didn’t like the apologetic look of the bloke.

“… What time is it?”

“Lemme see, uhh… seven forty.”

Speedwagon groaned. He hadn’t even finished breakfast yet—and he was sure he wouldn’t be exactly fooling around.

“Hmmph hmmmph!” Pyro shouted, giving him a thumbs up. He smiled—it was, admittedly, a bit upsetting not seeing the fella with their mask off at all, but his nose never lied; this was a good soul.

He grabbed his mug of coffee and downed it in a few gulps. He hoped they’d receive the tea he ordered soon enough, but for now it’d do—and he had the feeling he was going to need it.

He was right.

“Do you think you have what it takes?!”

He resisted the urge to wince as Soldier shouted in his face. He knew what this was—he might not have been in the army, but he could recognize the classic ‘I’m going to break you’ routine. He had dealt many, many times with men like this and, though his temper threatened to boil, he knew that the best way of avoiding trouble was playing along. At least while he could.

He kept silent. Soldier growled.

“The battlefield is no playground, maggot—there is no place for the weak! We need to make sure you are not going to be a nuisance* out there. So!”

Soldier grinned.

“I’m going to beat the weakness out of your body. When I’m through with you, you will be an exemplary soldier, like all of us! And do you know the best way to do it?!”

Speedwagon squinted, tensing up. He wasn’t about to endure a beating, he needed to be in shape for the fight tomorrow—

“I don’t hear you, maggot!”

“Yes, sir!” he played along.

“You are going to face your fears!”

With that, Soldier pulled a lever and, to Speedwagon’s surprise, a cardboard figure of a BLU Scout popped out of the floor.

“I know, I know, we’re starting small. But do not be fooled by this maggot’s scrawny, pitiful looks—this man is trained to kill, and will not hesitate to do so in a very quick, disorienting and painful way! Rule number one: Never! Underestimate. The enemy.”

Soldier pointed at it.

“Go! Stand in front of that sorry excuse of a human being!”

Speedwagon walked towards it until Soldier stopped him a feet away from it.

“Perfect! Now look at him. _Really_ look at him. Stare into his eyes. Can you see his hopes? His dreams? How his eyes glint when for just a moment he thinks of his momma baking an apple pie while waiting for his son to come back home?”

That—that was… oddly specific. And unsettling.

“End his life. Now!”

He reacted almost by muscle memory, throwing three punches with the viciousness he hadn’t been able to get rid off since the night he’d learnt about Jonathan’s death. The last one splintered the wood and made the head of the figure fly away, hit the floor with a dry _clank_. He could hear his own heavy breathing, feel the tension still in his muscles—the blood pumping in his veins.

“I am impressed, private!” Soldier slapped him hard on the back, ginning. “It seems you have what it takes. However! Never forget.” And he got serious, almost grim. “These bastards are men like all of us. Only much worse because they’re BLU. But they feel the same. They even look the same. Never forget, because if you do, and remember just when you’re about to finish the maggot off—you lose.” He straightened up.

He was under no pretense. He knew he’d never be able to take a death lightly. His grief and anger and helplessness had fed a side of him he’d thought, a year ago, he’d left behind; today, thanks to Soldier, he wondered if they would be enough to get the job done.

He supposed they’d have to do.

“Now!” Soldier yelled, making him jump. “Before we test your combat abilities, we need to cover a vital aspect. In the battleground, it is important knowing how to debilitate your enemy! So, how do we do that?”

“Uh…”

“Distracting them! And considering Miss Pauling has banned me from the honey supply—” …What? Soldier grinned as he pulled a jar of jam out of thin air “—we are going to have to improvise!”

That day, Speedwagon learned many things. Firstly, that he could outrun Soldier with the proper incentive. Secondly, Engineer was a very intuitive man and held an authority that went unsuspected at first sight—and thank God for Engineer. Thirdly, and most prominently: this was going to be a very peculiar war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank God for Engineer, indeed
> 
> \-----
> 
> Aaand we reached the point where I have nothing else written dskfskf
> 
> I'm going to keep updating, but at my pace, which uhhh I don't know if it will be very quickly. On top of my usual speed I've got a job now plus college classes so I'm gonna be slower in general rip
> 
> Thank you very much for reading up to now! ♥ I hope you stay around for the rest of the trip \o/


	5. Mirror Match

His first thought when dressing that morning had been: _Red doesn’t suit me._

Speedwagon was used to wearing dark shades of purple and green. The dark red and pink three-piece suit looked alien when he put it on. They’d even sent him a dark red version of his bowler hat to fit the uniform. It was… an odd sight.

He nonetheless put them on. At least they fit him, and allowed him to move as freely as his usual clothes did. They were the same material, even. Who were these people, so meticulous for these sorts of things? One wouldn’t think he was going to a war by the care to detail in redesigning his looks.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror once more, poised to hit. His eyes shone with grim determination.

He was ready.

\-----

He was not ready.

He never could’ve been ready for the sight of _himself_ , dressed in shades of blue, slicing Heavy’s throat with his bowler hat.

 _What the bloody hell is that?!_ , he thought, anger, fear and grief swirling in his heart.

“Focus, private!” Soldier yelled at him in passing. “Remember your training!”

He shook his head. _Snap out of it! You could get killed! Move!_

He saw a Scout dressed in BLU’s uniform approach him fast, his bat raised in the air. He threw his hat at him, but the boy easily evaded it. Damn! He was too quick.

But he wasn’t defenseless; not by a long shot.

He ducked the boy’s hit and punched him right in the face. The Scout stumbled, out of balance, and Speedwagon was quick to follow with a kick that left him sprawled on the floor. He got out his sledgehammer and loomed over his enemy.

He stopped. Despite the pure hatred in his eyes, he was so alike Scout…

He felt something slice through his chest. He gasped, falling to the floor. The smell and taste of his blood was so pungent he couldn’t feel anything else as he started choking in it.

The last thing he heard was a “Screw you, Spy, I got it covered,” before his world turned black.

\-----

He woke up with a gasp standing in the middle of the so-called Respawn.

He dropped to the floor, breathing heavily. “Wh-what was that?!”

“You died,” Spy said next to him.

He glared at the man. “I’m here, aren’t I?” He couldn’t be right, could he? If this was the afterlife, he’d hoped to be somewhere else, in the presence of his long-lost friends, not… this.

“This is the most peculiar aspect of this war,” Spy continued, not caring much for his bad mood. “This is what actually makes it a challenge.” He bent closer to him. “Are you ready to face death countless times? Until you forget what its sweet release entails? You renounced to that privilege once you signed this contract—”

He punched Spy in the face.

Spy stumbled back, but quickly regained his footing with an annoyed glare. “Welcome to Hell,” he said, and spat blood on the floor next to him.

As he watched Spy retreat to the resupply lockers, he let his hand wander to his back. Intact, like nothing had ever happened. Was he dreaming? He refused to think Spy was right. Because that would mean something he wasn’t ready to face right now; maybe ever.

Suddenly, someone appeared—appeared!—next to him. He shouted in surprise, even as Heavy stared down at him in concern, as if his throat had never been touched by the sharp edge of a bowler hat.

“Is little man okay?”

He realized, at that moment, chest aching with a phantom pain, that it was true. He also realized how much of both a blessing and a curse it was.

He gulped, and shook his head. He guessed he’d lived bizarre enough circumstances in his lifetime by now.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. He stood up, trying to quickly reorganize his world, as he always seemed to have to ever since Jonathan walked into his life. After some seconds, he said: “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a while. I promise I'm working on the rest of my fics, though I've got to admit I'm a lot more careful with them than with this one and that's why it takes me like, triple the effort. I should reevaluate my writing practices lol.
> 
> Speedwagon meets Speedwagon. Or at least sees him. In the future they'll sure clash with each other! Now, however, he's worried at more pressing concerns. Like, being unable to stay dead. Woops.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥


	6. Those We Left Behind

On Friday evening, Brawler’s seat at the kitchen table was empty.

Dell frowned at the porridge he was making. They all always made a point of dining together, in order to strengthen the team bond—even Sniper, skittish as he was, joined them all at the kitchen table without a fault. And Brawler definitely knew this.

After he served everyone, he prepared a plate from their missing teammate—and one for himself—and decided to go after him. Don’t mistake him; he ain’t no one’s nanny. But he knew it was difficult to adjust. Too many factors to take into consideration that weren’t a reality anywhere but there.

The night was cold, but it didn’t deter Dell to check out the rooftop. Which, surprisingly, was where he was. Or, well, not too surprisingly, as the cold wind of the heights usually was sought for everyone who needed to clear up their thoughts, including himself.

“Pardner?” he tried tentatively.

To his utter horror, Brawler actually _jumped_ in surprise and he didn’t land quite on the edge of the rooftop, so he watched him fall and land on the floor as a puppet with its strings cut. After he recovered from the fright, Dell sighed and shook his head, walking down the stairs to head to Respawn, where a disoriented Brawler was shivering in his place.

“… Are you alright, buddy?” Dell asked softly.

Brawler barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Well, I guess that all but proves it.”

Dell was quick to catch on. Ah, it was a life and death matter. Sadly, not what he usually dealt with—he was an engineer, not a philosopher—but still. His experience as a mercenary in those lands—and all his extra experience helping the brothers and the Ma’am—made it so that he was no longer a strange to such wonderings.

“I’d say ‘Congratulations,’ but I sense it’s not a happy revelation, is it?”

Brawler wiped his eyes with his sleeve, visibly attempting to regain composure. “Let’s say, mate, neither did I have a death wish nor did I fear death. Let’s say…” He smirked mirthlessly. “I have someone waiting for me on the other side.”

Dell’s expression dropped. Oh. It must be tough to reconcile the possibility of losing someone forever. He thought of his grandpa with a pang in his heart. Yeah, he actually could relate, somehow.

“I’m so sorry, pardner.” He extended the porridge at him.

Brawler looked at it, conflicted. “That smells heavenly, not gonna lie to ya,” he said. “But I’m dizzy as hell.”

Dell laughed. “Ah, yeah, it’s hard the first times. Especially after a big fall or a failed rocket-jump landing. Ask Solly.”

Speedwagon actually took it into consideration. Soldier seemed to be strangely grounded when war was the topic. He remembered the jam incident, grimacing. Well, most of the time.

“Engineer,” he started. Dell listened attentively. “Sorry for the sappy shite, but… Does it always feel… so lonely?”

Dell thought about his loved ones, about the ones he wasn’t allowed to love. About his team—their team—and the family they had achieved together.

“Sometimes,” he said, honestly. “But it gets better.” He smiled knowingly at him. He knew they’d all eventually come together, as they always did. But it didn’t need to be today. He handed the porridge to a confused, though somewhat relieved Brawler, and sat on the cold floor of Respawn, patting the tiles next to him. “Care to sit for a while?”

Speedwagon looked at the floor, then at him, and nodded. And as he sat next to Engineer, he thought he could understand what he meant by what he said.

\-----

Spy uncloaked steps away from Respawn. _Ah,_ he thought, adding mentally a dead lover to the list. No wonder his reaction had been so visceral back then. He would say he owed him an apology, if the thought of apologizing to him didn’t hurt something in his pride.

He had previously thought—seen as the man didn’t have any family to speak of—that he had some sort of romantic connection with Mrs. Joestar, pursued after the death of her husband; however, it didn’t quite make sense. Why had he decided to throw his life away at mercenary work, then, instead of staying with his beloved? Not that he had done differently, he’d thought bitterly. Maybe he was searching for a way to maintain Mrs. Joestar and her son—yes, the couple had _had_ a son, before Mr. Joestar’s untimely death. Surprisingly, considering the man had died on their _honeymoon_.

But this spoke of… something he didn’t quite expect. Maybe Mrs. Joestar wasn’t the connection. Maybe it was… the man himself. Or both. _Huh._ He groaned internally. _Another thing we have in common._

He hurried his steps as quietly as he could to avoid being caught. That would be embarrassing—and would definitely speak badly of his proficiency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, it's been a hot minute since I released a chapter for this! I apologize; I still haven't reached my favorite scene so we'll have to wait for further developments c:
> 
> I should stop making Engineer go after Speedwagon when he's low on morale or a troublemaker but hey, Engie seems to me like the glue sometimes--in the sense that he _tries_ for everyone to get along.
> 
> Spy keeps figuring out this misterious gentleman in a not very gentlemanly way: eavesdropping. Oh, Spy.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Check my profile for info about my other WIPs and an easier way to keep track of my (past, present and future) works!


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